Memories of Poetry in my life
By Nihal D Amerasekera
An intimate journey through words, music,
memory and time
Since my teenage years, I was a hoarder of
books. Despite being cumbersome, the books travelled with me wherever I moved. As
I entered my eighties, I decided it was time to find good homes for my
treasured collection. One by one, the books found new owners, until only one
remained. This was the book presented to
me by our beloved friend, Zita Perera. It is a book of poems written from the
heart in beautiful rhyming verse about love, life and death.
My first encounter with poetry was as a
four-year-old kindergarten pupil at St John's School in Nugegoda. Like all four-year-olds,
I was charmed by the world of fairies and enthralled by the sun and the moon
and the stars. The famous “Twinkle twinkle little star” caught my imagination
and stayed with me. Now when I see my grandkids sing those songs with gestures,
I am reminded of the joy I once
experienced.
When I was eight, I moved to the primary
school at Wesley College, where English and Sinhala poetry became important
parts of our education. We all had to buy a book of Sinhala poems called “Sudo
Sudu“. It was composed by Sagara Palansuriya. I was captivated by the
beautiful descriptive poems. Through his words, I discovered the quiet beauty
of village life, its customs and traditions, its tragic love stories, and the
full range of human emotions that lay beneath its outward simplicity.
As adolescence arrived, my literary interests
broadened. I was drawn to adventure, suspense and excitement of stories such as
“The Count of Monte Cristo” by the French novelist Alexandre Dumas. Yet poetry
offered a different kind of adventure, one in which the imagination could
travel beyond the boundaries of ordinary prose.
At the Middle School, our English poetry textbook was “On Freedom's Way”,
a wonderful collection compiled and edited by A. P. O'Brien. We were fortunate
to have an inspiring teacher of English literature. He recited those poems, breathed life into
them and helped us enter the worlds they created. One poem that particularly
fascinated me was Samuel Taylor Coleridge's “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”. Composed
in the 18th century its mystery, suspense and supernatural imagery
captured my youthful imagination. Written at a time when long sea voyages were
fraught with danger, this remarkable ballad tells a haunting tale of guilt,
suffering and redemption. Beneath its strange and unsettling events lies a
profound moral message: all living things deserve our reverence and compassion.
In an age when religious belief played a central role in people's lives, the
poem's spiritual dimension would have resonated deeply with its readers.
Yet the same collection also offered us a
gentler, brighter vision of the world. Few poems have expressed the beauty of
nature more memorably than William Wordsworth's Daffodils. Its opening lines
remain as fresh and vivid to me today as when I first encountered them:
I wandered
lonely as a cloud
That floats on
high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once
I saw a crowd,
A host, of
golden daffodils;
Beside the lake,
beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
When I entered the Sixth Form, the demands of the sciences began to dominate my school life. Nevertheless, we continued to have one English lesson each week. We were fortunate to have a teacher who was willing to take us beyond the prescribed syllabus. We were introduced to the English Victorian novelist and poet Thomas Hardy. His most famous works were “Far from the Madding crowd” and “The Mayor of Casterbridge”. He began to write poetry later in life. His poetry was philosophical and deeply influenced and coloured by his long and unhappy marriage. The book “The convergence of the twain” was about the sinking of the Titanic. He felt it was an impact between human pride and the force of fate. His later poems “The Going” and “The Voice” were written after the sudden death of his estranged wife Emma, blending deep regret, memories, and ghost-like visions. Hardy's death brought a final irony to his story. Although he was cremated and his ashes were interred at Westminster Abbey, his heart was buried separately in Dorset, near the grave of Emma. The symbolism of this gesture is difficult to ignore. We were immensely fortunate to have these poems recited and taught in great detail by a fine teacher of English literature.
During my years at the Faculty of Medicine there was hardly any time for poetry. My appreciation of it matured during my years as a practising professional, when experience began to deepen my understanding of the human condition. With marriage came the joys and responsibilities of raising a loving family, and the inevitable encounters with life's uncertainties. They all added new dimensions to my reading.
Poetry according to Encyclopaedia Brittanica is a form of literary and artistic expression that uses the aesthetic, rhythmic, and sonic qualities of language to evoke emotions, create vivid imagery, and convey ideas beyond literal meaning. I firmly believe, like many do, that prose, poetry, hymns and lyrics of songs have a common thread and they are all forms of poetry. I couldn’t describe Poetry better than William Wordsworth:
“Poetry is the
spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion
recollected in tranquillity.”
During my adult life I found the work of contemporary poets alluring and fascinating. The poems of T.S Eliot are complex and difficult to get to the real meaning. His poem called “Waste Land” written after the 1st World War illustrates the disenchantment, disillusionment, and disgust of the difficult postwar period. It also depicts the sadness, loss and hardship. The poem shows both the grandeur and evil of victory.
Doctor Zhivago is an epic love story written by Boris Pasternak and is set amid the turmoil of the First World War and revolutionary Russia.
The film is the
finest I’ve seen. The song Somewhere, My Love, with lyrics by Paul Francis
Webster expresses so completely and brilliantly the vast romanticism of the
story. Even now, when I hear the song, It takes me back to the film and the
desolate icy wilderness of Siberia, the beautiful snow-capped Ural Mountains
and Yuri and Lara’s final moments in Varykino. I would love to share its
brilliant lyrics:
Somewhere my love there will be songs to sing
Although the
snow covers the hope of Spring
Somewhere a
hill blossoms in green and gold
And there are
dreams, all that your heart can hold
Someday we'll
meet again, my love
Someday
whenever the Spring breaks through
You'll come to
me, out of the long-ago
Warm as the
wind, soft as the kiss of snow
Lara, my own,
think of me now and then
Godspeed, my
love, till you are mine again
Warm as the
wind, soft as the kiss of snow
Godspeed, my
love, till you are mine again
I was exposed to the value of Hymns since my early childhood. I still love their lyrics and those lovely melodies. I sang those hymns everyday at assembly while at school and whenever I went to church thereafter. On my last day at school in April 1962 the boys sang a wonderful hymn which has remained in my memory ever since. The occasion marked the end of a significant chapter in my life venturing into an uncertain future.
Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah
Pilgrim
through this barren land
I am weak, but
Thou art mighty
Hold me with
Thy powerful hands
Bread of heaven, feed me now and evermore
Everything that begins must eventually end, and our own lives are no exception. This hymn traditionally sung at services of remembrance and at the close of life, expresses this truth with extraordinary tenderness. There is a quiet courage in those words, a recognition that facing life's final chapter need not mean facing it without hope.
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
the darkness
deepens; Lord, with me abide:
when other
helpers fail, and comforts flee,
help of the
helpless, O abide with me.
Why is poetry important?
I find this a
surprisingly difficult question to answer, despite having carried a love of
poetry throughout my life. The more I reflect on it, the more I realise that
its importance cannot be reduced to a single explanation.
Poetry can help
us recognise and process emotions that we do not fully understand. By giving
language to grief, anxiety, love or regret, it can make the inexpressible seem
a little more manageable. Its rhythms can slow the mind and encourage a kind of
contemplation akin to prayer or meditation. For children, rhyme and repetition
make language memorable, stimulating imagination and nurturing a love of words.
For adults, poetry can provide consolation, challenge established beliefs and
open windows into the lives and experiences of others.
Most
importantly, poetry allows us to see the familiar differently. A field of
flowers becomes a source of enduring happiness in Wordsworth's hands. A great
ocean liner becomes a meditation on human pride and fate in Hardy's. A tragic
love story acquires another dimension through the lyrics of ‘Somewhere my love’.
A hymn sung on a schoolboy's last day becomes a lifelong reminder of faith,
friendship and the passage of time.
For me, reading
or reciting a poem is an act of entering another person's world. For a brief
while, I leave behind my own immediate concerns and try to see through the eyes
of the poet. I share the poet's joy, sorrow, wonder or bewilderment. Sometimes
I understand the meaning at once; sometimes it takes years of experience before
the words reveal their full significance. A poem encountered in childhood may
speak to us in an entirely different way when we are old.
That, perhaps,
is the enduring magic of poetry. It grows with us. The words remain the same,
but we change, and with each passing year we bring a different understanding to
what we read.
